CHAPTER XVI
CAUGHT
Therewas an air of subdued excitement all about Westfield, that extended even to good old Dr. Burton. He even found it rather difficult to apply himself to translating some early Assyrian tablets into modern Hebrew as a preliminary to rendering them into ancient Chinese.
The various members of the faculty found their students paying rather less than the usual attention to the lectures, and in one quiz, when Cap Smith was asked concerning the raising of an unknown quantity to the nth power his answer was:
“He’s out on first!”
“Doubtless true, but unfortunately Westfield has no chair for the science of applied baseball,” answered the professor as the laugh went rippling around the room.
But the spirit of the game was in the air, it hung about the school buildings, lingered in the dormitories, and the very smell of chemicals in the laboratory seemed replaced by the odor of crushed green grass, the whiff of leather and the sound of the explosions of the miniature Prince Rupert’s drops, as the science teacher demonstrated the effect of a sudden change in the strain of a congealed body seemed to the lads to be the blows of the bat on a ball.
Over on the diamond, which had been as carefullygroomed as a horse before he is led out to try for the blue ribbon, were any number of eager enthusiasts practicing. There were talks between the coach and captain, anxious conferences with the manager, and on every side could be seen lads in their uniforms carefully looking after balls, bats, masks or chest protectors. Some were tightening the laces of their shoes, others mending ripped gloves, while Bill Smith had indulged in the luxury of a new toe plate.
For the next day would mark the opening of the Interscholastic league, and the first big game—that with Tuckerton—was to be played.
“And you must wake and call me early,Call me early, Peetie dear,For to-morrow is the openingOf the dear old baseball year.”
“And you must wake and call me early,Call me early, Peetie dear,For to-morrow is the openingOf the dear old baseball year.”
“And you must wake and call me early,
Call me early, Peetie dear,
For to-morrow is the opening
Of the dear old baseball year.”
Thus Cap misquoted the verse, and joined his brothers and chums in the laugh that followed.
But if there were many hearts that rejoiced at the near prospect of the big opening contest, there were two lads whose souls were filled with bitterness. One was Mersfeld, the partially deposed pitcher, and the other Bondy Guilder, who, for no particular reason, had come to almost hate Bill and his brothers.
“Do you think you can get the glasses?” asked Mersfeld of his crony, on the night before the big game.
“Sure. I’ve been watching Bill—his room’s next to mine you know—and I know just how he goes and comes. I have some ordinary lenses all ready to slip in the place of the special ones I’m going to take out.”
“How’d you get the right size?”
“Oh, I made a pretence of wanting to see his glasses andwhile I had them I pressed a sheet of paper on them, got an impression of the size, and got the lenses in town. They are not an unusual size, only they’re ground differently to bring one eye in focus with the other. Bill won’t pitch more than one inning in the game to-morrow, and then you can go in.”
“But he’ll know what’s wrong as soon as he has his eyes, and the glasses tested again.”
“What of it? He won’t suspect us, and all you want is a chance to make good; isn’t it?”
“Yes, for if I do make good in the opening game I’m sure they’ll have to let me stay through the season, and Bill won’t be in it. I’m glad you’re helping me.”
“I’d do more than that to put one over on the Smith boys. I don’t like them. I wish they’d get out of Westfield.”
Bondy had his plans all laid, and had, after considerable trouble secured a pair of lenses to replace those in Bill’s pitching glasses. Now, like some spider watching for his hapless prey, he sat in his room on the morning of the day of the big game, waiting for a chance to sneak in and make the substitution. He felt that he could do it, for no one ever locked his door at Westfield, and Bill had been in the habit lately of spending a lot of time in the apartment of Whistle-Breeches.
But now Bill was in his room, and Bondy was impatiently waiting for him to go out. The sneak knew that if he could change the glasses the trick would not be discovered until after Bill was in the box, for he did not use the goggles in preliminary practice where there was no home plate over which to throw.
“Hang it all! Why doesn’t he go?” thought the rich lad as he peered from the partly-opened door of his study, and saw Bill moving about in his room. The pitcher was taking a few stitches in his jacket, which had been ripped. “I haven’t much more time,” mused the conspirator, “for they’ll soon go out to practice, and he’ll take the goggles with him.”
There was a call from down the corridor. It came from the room of Whistle-Breeches.
“I say Bill, where are you?”
“Here. What’s up?”
“Give us a hand, will you? I can’t get this needle threaded and there’s a hole in my stocking as big as your fist. I wouldn’t mind, only it’s opening game and we want to look decent. I caught it on a nail.”
“Wait a minute. I’ll be with you,” sung out Bill, and dropping his own work he darted for the room of his chum.
“Just my chance!” whispered Bondy. “But I haven’t much time!” He had the substitute lenses ready, and a small screw driver with which to open the frame and make the change.
Into Bill’s room the sneak darted when he saw the pitcher enter the study of Whistle-Breeches. A rapid glance around showed him where the goggles were—in their usual place on top of a shelf of books.
It was the work of a minute to secure them, and begin to loosen the screws. Bondy worked feverishly, but his very haste and nervousness were against him. His hands trembled, and he was in a sweat of fear. One glass was almost loose, when, with a suddenness that was as startlingas a clap of thunder would have been, the door leading from Bill’s to Pete’s room opened, and the shortstop entered. He did not notice Bondy at first, as the latter stood in the shadow of the book shelves, and this fact gave the conspirator time to shove the screw driver and extra lenses into his pocket.
“Caught!” he murmured under his breath.
The tinkle of glass caught Pete’s ears, and he wheeled around.
“Oh! Hello, Bondy!” he exclaimed, and then catching sight of his brother’s goggles in the other’s hands he quickly asked:
“What are you doing with those glasses?”